No Right Turn by Terry Trueman Read Free Book Online

she lives in one of the swankier neighborhoods in Spokane. She has a swimming pool—hell, she has everything ! Her life is perfect.
    Perfect, perfect, perfect—she’s going to be thrilled to find out that not only do I not own a Corvette, but that I’m a lying sack of shit (“I’ve been out of the country”) and that I’m half an orphan.
    I look at her handwriting again: Becka Thorson, 555–7778. And again. Becka Thorson 555–7778, Becka Thorson, Becka …
    I grab the phone and call Wally. I tell him about meeting Becka.
    â€œYeah, right,” he says, laughing.
    â€œReally, Wally, it’s true.”
    Dragging out the words like he’s talking to a lying four-year-old, Wally demands, “ You met Becka Thorson … the Becka Thorson? You met her and she likes you?”
    â€œI swear to God.”
    Wally laughs again. “She loved the car, right?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYour ’Vette.”
    I get quiet.
    â€œYeah,” Wally says. “This is gonna work out real good for you.”
    As usual, Wally, in his own demented way, is probably right; I’m screwed.
    When Mom gets home from work tonight, I’m still super high about meeting Becka. The hell with Wally and all his negativism—Becka liked me, I could tell.
    Mom comes through the front door, and I holler out, “Yo, Mommy-o!”
    She laughs and answers, “Well, hi, J-boy.”
    These are nicknames from like a thousand years ago, back when Dad was still alive and we were this big, happy family. Or at least we thought we were.
    â€œWhy are you so festive?” Mom asks.
    â€œSorry,” I answer.
    Mom laughs again and says, “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just glad to hear you sound so full of beans.”
    â€œFull of beans?” I tease her. “That’s really hip, Mom; no, really, you are one cool mack mommy, so in touch with the youth—”
    Before I can finish, Mom, a fake anger in her tone, says, “That’s it, smart aleck! Yer getting smacked down … smacked down hard … now!!!”
    Like I mentioned before, Mom’s got a good straight right; she has a good left hook, too. I’m outa here! If I can reach my room before she catches me, I’ll be saved....

NINE
    The next day at school, Wally and I sit together in second period, Current World Problems. He can’t wait to ask me more about Becka. She’s such a somebody at our school, and we’re such nobodies.
    Wally, still straining to believe the whole thing, asks, “Are you actually going to phone her?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œSoon, probably tonight.”
    â€œAre you going to tell her the truth?”
    I’ve foolishly admitted to Wally my dumb-ass “man of international intrigue” horseshit. I consider his question for a second. “If we actually go out, I’ll tell her the truth, face-to-face. Not on the phone before we even see each other again.”
    Wally ponders this for about a second. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s a good idea—you should actually be with her when she dumps you.”
    â€œThanks, Wal.”
    Don and I are working on the ’Vette in his driveway when I bring up the nitro for about the hundredth time.
    Don looks at me. “You sure got a hard-on about this nitrous booster, don’t you?”
    I say, “Sorry if I’m bugging you....”
    â€œNo.” Don laughs. “It’s fine. I haven’t even tried the nitrous myself yet. Nitrous is not a toy. It causes incredible strain and can make a car old before its time—nitrous is the methamphetamine of the internal combustion engine.”
    I ask, “So why have it?”
    â€œSo that this bad girl, admittedly mild by classic Corvette standards, won’t just look good but can deliver if the demand ever arrives.”
    I flash back to my drag race with the guys in